


Playtime

by sparklingice



Series: Games we play [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Conversations, Barebacking, Body Worship, Drinking, Established Relationship, Humor, Kink Discovery, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Case, Season/Series 13, Sex Games, Sibling Incest, Teasing, mentions of watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingice/pseuds/sparklingice
Summary: Dean wants to play a sex game. Sam's unamused. Things escalate from there.“So. Here are the rules. You throw the dice, draw a card from the appropriate deck - this is number one and kissy lips is number six - read the task or question or whatever, then do what it says. You bail, I win, and vice versa. Real simple.”





	Playtime

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a newcomer in the fandom (discovered this incredible series only three months ago), but this idea has been stuck in my head for weeks now and I couldn't resist giving it a shot. I really hope you guys will like how it turned out. Some of the "cards" are inspired by actual tasks from a sex game I've read about.  
> Feedback is welcome and appreciated. 
> 
> Have fun reading!

 

“I’m bored.” Dean blurts from his precarious perch on the motel room’s half-broken stool after peeling the floral wallpaper lost its entertaining value. So, like, after two minutes. His brother has claimed the only stable chair for himself as soon as they came back and has been typing on his laptop ever since. Even though Dean could have shoved him off the seat with barely any effort (really, he’s way stronger than Sasquatch, ‘kay), he let him ‘cause he wanted another go with that gorgeous dick preferably this month (alright, he likes bottoming, so what). He’s fairly sure a fight for that beat-up chair wouldn’t have helped with his chances. “Let’s play a game.”

Across the table, Sam grunts. “I think I’ll pass.”

“C’mon, you know you wanna.” Dean drawls and throws in a leer for good measure. Not like it gets him any attention, but whatever. Winners never stop trying. (Huh, that was kinda inspiring…) “Sam. Sa-am.” _Type, type, type._ Sooo boring. “Sammy. Sam-I-Am -”

“You ain’t gonna shut up, huh?” Wow, if looks could kill, that website would have crashed down from irreparable server problems. Dean’s mind helpfully supplies him with images of the last time they had angry sex, of tiny crescent bruises around his hips, of brown locks shiny-wet from sweat. His smile widens.

“Nope.” He makes sure to pop the ‘p’ extra hard, just to see those nostrils flaring.

“You’ve already won a blowjob on poker, I’m not playing double or nothing. Go find a bar or something.”

“Nah. I wanna play with you.”

Truth is, he plans on playing something very specific. It does involve cards, just not aces and stuff. More along the lines of… spanking and bondage and… lots of kinky things. Handcuffs. And gags, maybe? Oh, who’s he kidding, Dean has no idea what kind of instructions there are in this game, but he knows it’s _for couples._ He sorta-perhaps-definitely stole it from the latest pair of idiots they saved from a cursed silk scarf. Actually, that’s the reason why he discovered the mysterious box of purple cards in the first place and it was that Breeze chick (the less stoned part of the duo) who told him what they were. And then Dean looked at his brother - bent over, trying to help River sit up (can’t these hippies choose normal names?) - and he got _Ideas._

Not that he and Sam need to amp up the magic in the bedroom (they’re just fine, thank you), but they haven’t done anything all that exciting in a while. ‘Cause Sam’s such a lame ass sometimes, wants it all lovey-dovey and vanilla, shooting down Dean’s (awesome) ideas like particularly vengeful spirits before a salt’n’burn. Rude. Dean has needs, damnit, and shivery little neck-kisses ain’t gonna cut it every night. Also, Sam totally would have rocked the hooker outfit, save for that prissy-lips-thing he’s got going on whenever Dean wants to work on their acting skills in any sort of fun way.

“It’s time to celebrate.” Dean states, thinking on the spot (like a boss). Because Sam obviously needs a _Reason,_ can’t let go of the stick up his ass just for Dean’s prett- uhm, _manly_ eyes.

Sam sighs. “To celebrate what? The Demise of the Cashmere Scarf from Hell?” (Trust Sammy to know the exact material it was made of.)

“The anniversary of, uh…” Quick, Dean, gotta convince him... “Of the first time we saw the second largest ball of twine in the continental U.S.” There.

“I give up.” Sam closes his laptop, rubbing at his forehead. He’s working himself up to an epic bitchface, which sucks, but Dean will take what he can get. “You wanna play Truth or Dare again? ‘Cause I’m kinda tired of telling you about my soulless escapades.”

“Careful with those big words.” Dean can’t help slipping in a little teasing. _Escapades,_ Christ.

“I’m days behind in research, but sure, go ahead, waste our time with a bunch of dirty jokes and groping.”

He fakes a pained gasp. “You hurt my feelings. How do you know this isn’t for the greater good? I mean, a bit of excitement can, uh, refresh the brain and shit.”

“Just like a good cup of coffee.”

Okay, this is obviously a Last Resort Situation. Dean widens his eyes and lets his lips wobble a bit - Sam’s gaze sharpens, alright, too much - _doesn’t_ let his lips wobble, and murmurs. “Please.”

It’s instant, like an angel flying away in a hissy fit. Sam’s lashes flutter (like tiny wings) and he swears under his breath, face softening. “Alright, Dean. But no poker.”

“No poker.” Dean smiles indulgently, stands and tugs on his brother’s hand until Sam follows him to the bed that’s not covered in rock salt and half an armory. They sit cross-legged on opposite ends and Dean arranges six decks of cards between them according to the tiny signs on their backs. He drops a dice in the middle with a flourish, trying to boost the (in fact very cool and dramatic) ambience.

“This is a sex game, isn’t it.” Sam says, unamused. They both know the answer to that, so Dean doesn’t bother with a reply. He curls his fingers around Sam’s (enormous) foot instead and presses his thumb into the sole of it, massaging. Gets a huff, a glare and a hard pinch for his troubles.

“Where did you get these?” Sam pokes the deck with the kissy lips sign like it carried an STD. Awfully suspicious of Dean’s stuff, as always.

“Does it matter?”

“Ye-”

“So. Here are the rules.” Dean cuts him off. “You throw the dice, draw a card from the appropriate deck - this is number one and kissy lips is number six - read the task or question or whatever, then do what it says. You bail, I win, and vice versa. Real simple.”

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, but nods compliantly and starts the game. He throws a six. Goody. Kissy lips has to mean some oral action, right? A slow, self-satisfied grin spreads on Dean’s face and he barely keeps himself from reaching down and fondling his dick. He can’t help it, Sam’s (undeniably sexy) scowls are getting to him already.

 _“You and your lover haven’t seen each other in a month due to work. You can’t wait to have him to yourself and welcome him properly, but you are at the airport and your fellow passengers are standing right next to you at the moment. Show him how you’d kiss him in this situation.”_ Sam reads aloud, the wrinkles on his forehead disappearing. His expression transforms to the one that Dean would have liked to see directed _only_ on cute things like puppies and kids and stuff, but not himself. And unless Sam has turned into one kinky motherfucker overnight (doubtful, but still, one can hope), Dean is getting pampered (again).

“Come here.” Sam smiles and cups the back of his head, then forces Dean’s lips apart like a starving hunter taking his first bite of steak. Their chins smash together at first and Sam’s stubble scrapes across Dean’s skin in the five seconds (tops) the kiss goes on, but (not counting the awkward collusion) there’s no serious heat in Sam’s moves. It kinda hurts (Dean’s cock, because his jeans are way too restricting). And yeah, alright, he is a weakling for Sam’s mouth, but damn, that’s _so_ _not_ the effect he was aiming for. He wants dirty, hard, lose-all-control-instinctual sex. It would be nice to have Sam without those worries, boundaries and reserves that they packed on themselves over the last years (decade). To be… young again (not like they are _old_ or anything, but they have _matured,_ and tonight Dean just wants…) He hopes this is just a momentary lapse in the game’s sexiness, ‘cause otherwise it was all for nothing. He can get adoring welcome-back smooches (almost) anytime he wants. They are practically Sammy’s trademark.

“Your turn.” Sam nudges his nose with his own and draws back. It tickles like an annoying sunburn. Dean rubs at the tip irritatedly and casts the dice. One (of course, the smallest number possible, great). He plasters on a cocky grin, then reaches for the cards.

_“Remember a moment when you were proud of your partner. Tell her how it made you feel.”_

At first, he feels a surge of disappointment (he wanted to do something with Sam, damnit, not talk and braid each other’s hair), then he thinks about bailing, because shit, this might be a touchy subject. He debates making a joke out of it, making it dirty - he sure as hell was proud when Sammy deepthroated for the first time - but one look at the worn-out lines of his brother’s face is enough for him to abandon that terrible idea. And only _then_ does he notice the pronoun. _Her._ His lips stretch into a shit-eating grin. “Well, what can I say, I’m proud of _her_ because, you know, _she_ is so nice -”

Sam shakes his head. “Very funny, Dean. Real mature.”

“It’s brilliant, dude. Even the game knows you are the woman.”

Sam’s gaze drops to his clasped hands resting on his lap. “You don’t have to answer, you know. Just pick another card, I won’t consider it as bailing.” He says, very quietly.

Dean’s heart clenches. Now he _has to_ answer. No way is he letting Sam think he’s not proud of him. “I’m proud of you all the freakin’ time.” He admits, and when Sam’s eyes snap up, it’s his turn to avert his own. Eye contact would be like instant death at the moment. “I look at you and see how you turned out, how strong and… perfect you are even after the hell we’ve been through and I - it feels -” _It gives a meaning to my life too._ “I can’t choose just one moment.”

“It’s all right.” Sam halts his blundering and puts a hand on his knee. He understands. “I guess it’s my turn.”

_“It ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it. Tell your partner about some of his quirks and mannerisms you find endearing.”_

Christ. It seems like these cards have been written specifically for big girls (like Sam). Where the fuck are the roleplay scenarios?

“To be honest, I kind of like your snoring.” Sam comments, all casual, and curls Dean’s fingers around the dice.

“I don’t snore!” Dean protests and yanks his hand away, a beat too late.

“You sure do. Granted, it’s a pretty soft snoring, but…” Sam has a Chesire grin on his face, but as much as it warms Dean’s heart, the accusation that he snores like a… like an old, balding, white-collar fart completely turns him off. Screw this card. “You know why I like it?”

“No, man. Tell me, why is my non-existent snoring so _endearing?”_

Sam rolls his eyes at his sarcasm (denial). “Because when I hear it, I know you are okay and resting right there with me.”

Dean can’t really deal with such an admission right now. He knows the feeling, of course, this constant worry in the back of his mind - if there was a way, he would seal their bodies together without a second thought just to make sure Sammy’s always okay. So that they’ll never be apart. But this stuff isn’t for tonight. This is supposed to be fun. Instead of a reply, he throws a four and draws a card.

 _“I just want to be your Teddy bear! Get together and give each other a big cuddle, sometimes it’s all you need.”_ He reads from the strip of paper, then covers his eyes with his palm. It does nothing to block out Sam’s joyful (lovely, beautiful) laughter. “God, this game sucks.”

 

After half an hour of fairly average questions (most of which they have already covered in previous Truth or Dare sessions) and a desecrated piece of pie they are finally getting to the juicy stuff. By now, Dean is buck naked - “ _give your partner a show”_ -, Sam’s shirt (artfully) draped over his groin, and Sam is picking leftover morsels of crust off his own bare chest, trying to rub the drops of sticky filling off his pecks.

“Man, I love this game.” Dean beams, one slice of cherry pie fuller than he has been five minutes ago. “Awesome tasks. _Eat your favourite food off the best body part of your partner._ Gotta admit though, I wanted - _”_

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you wanted. I’m not reenacting the American Pie.”

“Too bad.” Dean leans back and smacks his lips. “So, what’s next, bitch?”

“Jerk.” Sam fires back and picks a card. They have lost the dice somewhere between Dean’s impromptu strip-tease and the shots of whiskey the cards ordered them to do, so by now they are just drawing at random. Neither of them minds, though, Dean’s pretty sure about that. He is hard and straining from anticipation, but the booze they’ve broken out and this sort of open, comfortable atmosphere gives the whole thing a lazy buzz. It doesn’t feel like a race to the finish line for once.

 _“Think of the rudest, most exciting sexual act you’ve ever engaged in with your partner. Now_ _hold that thought and give him two minutes to correctly read your mind. If he can’t remember,_ _you’ll soon have the chance to remind him.”_ Sam reads aloud and honest-to-God giggles. Dean suspects he is well on his way from sober to tipsy, in spite of how little they actually had to drink. But it has been a while since they had something stronger than beer and - well, Dean can sense it too, this cozy bubble of affection that has settled over them. “I’m thinking of it.” Sam announces, grinning.

Dean beams back at him. They had no shortage of exciting sex over the years, but he can easily guess which one topped the cake for his brother. “In that weird Twilight Zone, on the couch of that Polish dude’s house. I made you stare at those giant pictures of fake-you until fake-Ruby walked in on us and I came on your back.” Good times.

“And there was a security cam above.”

“Hm, yeah.” Dean smiles and adjusts himself under Sam’s flannel. “I wonder what happened to that record.”

“I hope we didn’t cause any harm with it.”

Personally, Dean can’t imagine a universe where they aren’t together, where they don’t have this irresistible pull that makes them crave _(more, more, more)_ no matter how close they get. It’s possible that fake-them have been in denial, but as far as Dean sees it, in the worst case, they had a sex-tape that would have happened anyway, sooner or later. He ignores the looks Sam’s giving his obvious erection and picks a new card.

“Yahtzee.” He chuckles and licks his lips. Sam flashes him a distinctly worried glance. _“Yo-ho-ho, Captain Amazing! Ye shipmates found some gold! Follow your partner’s treasure trail with the body part of your choice to get to your prize.”_

“These cards are ridiculous.”

“These cards are awesome. Now shut up and come here.” He says and turns to sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the carpet. You can bet he’s gonna use his tongue for this one. “And ditch the jeans.”

Sam moves like a newborn colt, clumsy and obviously drunk, his long legs doing their best to trip over themselves. His jeans get caught on one ankle and he laughs, leaves them. He stands between Dean’s legs, bare and beautiful, no underwear, hard lines of muscle and warm skin to touch. One of his giant hands settles into Dean’s hair and tugs until they are flesh to flesh, Dean’s nose just south of his belly button. A thrill trickles down Dean’s spine - he _loves_ this, Sam pliant and happy to take what he wants. His fingers tap and circle on Dean’s cheek, nudging him into action (no fear, no guilt). Dean smiles and presses a kiss to the skin closest to his mouth.

“Commando, Sammy?” He mumbles against Sam’s lower belly, hands sliding around to cup his butt. “Am I finally rubbing off on you?”

Sam gasps and angles his hips forward and up, searching for Dean’s mouth. “I wish.”

Dean ignores the cock bobbing mere inches from his lips and lets his tongue slide out, licks a wet stripe up along the fine hairs dusting Sam’s abdomen. He tastes deliciously salty, leaving only a hint of sweet flavour behind as the tip of Dean’s tongue retraces its tracks downwards in tiny figure-eight flicks. Sam lets out a guttural sound and sways on his feet.

Dean tightens his hold around him, his pointers now digging into the twin dimples above Sam’s ass. “It’s okay, I got you.”

Sam’s fingers move to his ear and massage it until it feels like it’s on fire, then move on to his neck and rub the pulse point there. The smell of arousal, whiskey and pie mingle in the air with the ever-lingering scent of gunpowder that clings to their skin after hunts, and it’s so close to _home_ that Dean aches, trying to inhale it whole. He wanted to savor this foreplay, to mess with his brother a little longer, but when Sam hums and says _please_ in that quiet voice of his that still sounds so innocent and true, he gives in. Sam’s cock dribbles all over his lips and chin before he lets it slip into his mouth (so wet and pungent). Dean breathes through his nose and sucks, closing his eyes. He makes a swirl around the head, slides down some more, then pulls up, listens to the panting above him. It would be much easier if he could lean back and bob his head properly, but Sam won’t let go, keeps him pressed into his stomach, forehead to belly, as if he wanted to merge the two of them together. His muscles tremble, but he doesn’t say a word, just clutches at Dean’s hair until Dean takes hold of his wrist, very gently, and eases it away, separates their bodies for all but a thin string of saliva from lips to groin.

“Your turn.” He wipes his mouth and whispers, and it sounds raw, even though nothing touched his throat, nothing made his eyes water and lungs burn. Sam doesn’t seem to catch the drift, looks rather dazed, so Dean circles his arms around him and pulls him down. He’s heavy and solid when he settles astride Dean’s lap, and Dean’s cock makes a valiant effort to rip apart the flannel shirt that’s still covering his hips. “Pick a card, Sam.”

 _“Is there -”_ Sam starts reading, then has to stop to compose himself when Dean’s fingers stroke his erection. _“Is there a kink that you would like to try but never told your partner?”_

He purses his lips, averting his gaze, and Dean’s eyes flash like a shifter’s that has just noticed its prey. “I see you there, Sammy. What is it?”

“Nothing.” Sam mumbles and buries his face in Dean’s neck, grinding down. He’s deflecting (but damn, it’s a good strategy). “We’ve tried all my fantasies.”

“Uh-huh, real convincing.”

“We did.”

“Come on.” Dean urges, rubbing up and down Sam’s thighs. If it’s easy enough to accomplish, he’s going to do it right here, right now. This game isn’t quite what he expected, it’s not bringing out their animalistic sides, but… but it’s good nonetheless, he decides. (Maybe they should play a round before the next _Talk_ Sam wants to have.) “Want me to tell you mine?”

Sam scoffs and nips his neck. He’s still hard as steel, chasing the light touch of Dean’s fingertips as much as he can, but there’s newfound tension in his shoulders. “I know that. It’s public sex.” Damn right it is. Pity they won’t ever do it, Sam being a giant prude and all that.

“You know, if you don’t tell me, I’ll assume it’s dressing up as Slave Princess Leia.”

“Christ.” Sam makes a disgruntled sound. “Okay, I admit it. Yes, I have a kink I haven’t told you and we haven’t tried yet. But it’s not crossdressing.”

“We’re already past that, dude.” Dean grins and shifts closer. What’s it gonna be, fairy make-up? A bit of spanking? Actual hair-braiding? “So, what is it?”

“That question wasn’t on the card.”

“I don’t care, I want to know. What is it?”

Sam leans back and hunches his shoulders, blushing to the roots of his hair. It’s kinda funny for a 6’5 man who can kill a vampire with his bare hands and a piece of razor wire. “Don’t get too weirded out?”

“Trust me, I won’t.” Not a chance.

He stares at the headboard for one more moment, then glances up at Dean. “It’s, ah, watersports.” He rambles and bites his bottom lip hard enough that it turns white, puppy eyed look slipping into place.

Dean gapes (like a total idiot). His cute, all vanilla little brother, who has been blushing like a virgin last week when Dean offered a simple rimjob, wants to try something _actually_ dirty… Is it Christmas already? “Watersports…? Like, piss?” Sam cringes and turns his head away, body tensing up and ready to bolt.

“Really?” Dean’s blinking rapidly, trying to process. _Hot damn._ He’s gonna have to take back the comment about prudeness, that’s for sure. “And how, um… how exactly…?”

Sam coughs in embarrassment. “You... in my hand… or...”

“Or?”

He digs his blunt nails into Dean’s back, then whispers almost inaudibly “On me.” Dean’s mouth drops open again while Sam closes his eyes and buries his burning face in Dean’s shoulder. “Kill me now.”

“No, it’s…” Truth be told, Dean has done that before, back when Sam was in California. It wasn’t all that arousing, but the chick was a total goner for it and _that_ _was_ insanely hot (well, until she wanted to swallow). He doesn’t understand the reason why someone would like that, but he doesn’t get most of his own kinks either, so that’s neither here nor there.

“It’s just… I want to - I want to see you let go. In every way. And I guess, uh, that’s one of them.” Oh. Well, that kinda makes sense. “God, I know I’m a freak -”

“Hey, it’s cool. We can, uh, do it someday, I think. If you want to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure.” They would need quite a bit of warm up, but whatever, Sam never really asks for anything like this, yet puts up with Dean’s stuff all the time. It’d be good to even out the score some. “You don’t want to, er, drink it, right? I mean, it’s okay if you do, just -”

Sam laughs against his skin. “No.”

“Alright, good. Case closed. Moving on.” Dean sighs in relief and curls his fist back around Sam’s cock, working it back to full hardness after this brief detour. “Now, where were we?”

“I was going to ride you.” Sam grins and mouths along his jaw. “But first, pick a card.”

“Can we just forget that? I’m getting desperate.” Dean doesn’t get an answer, but when he tries to go for the lube on the nightstand, Sam slaps his hand away. “Son of a bitch.” Dean curses and plants a hard kiss on his brother’s lips in retaliation, then snatches a (stupid, stupid) card without even looking.

_“Fabulous Veggies: stand face against the wall and wait for your partner to approach you with certain items that can do wonders to your health. Part your legs and let him insert one - guess which is it, a cucumber or his erect penis?”_

“I’m not doing this.” Dean proclaims before Sam has a chance to open his mouth. Who on Earth had this fucked up idea? A cucumber? Jesus Christ. No way. Sam is the only thing, the only one who is allowed to touch him there. This task is so far out in left field it’s not even visible. “Nu-uh. Not now, not ever.”

Sam smirks and runs his hands down Dean’s chest. “So, you bailing?”

It takes no more than a second to think through. “You bet.”

Sam all but glowes and pushes Dean flat on his back. “I’m the winner, then.” He leans down and captures Dean’s right nipple in his mouth, sucks on it until Dean’s body goes lax from pleasure. “What’s my prize?”

Dean rips the half-ruined shirt away from his crotch and makes a vague gesture at his erection (which is undoubtedly longer than his brother’s). “All yours, princess.”

“God, yes, mine.” Sam moans and aligns them in his (perfect, strong, amazing) grip.

There’s nothing between them now, it’s just skin on skin, Sam’s thighs around Dean’s hips, Dean’s hands on Sam’s knees, their cocks in Sam’s hand. They are lying the wrong way, Dean’s feet still planted on the carpet and his head almost dangling off the other side of the narrow bed, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck as long as Sam keeps acting like he’s gonna die if he can’t sit on Dean’s cock ASAP. The crappy mattress dips and creaks under their weight, makes the cards slide down until half of them are wedged under Dean’s back and the other half is covering his left arm. He grunts and swats at them to no avail - they stick to his sweaty-hot skin like wrinkled, purple scales. Dean has half a mind to crack a joke about being a sex-beast, but it goes up in smoke when Sam laughs, all breathy and giddy-like, and grabs the bottle of lube.

“Serves you right.” He says and raises his hips a little, reaches behind himself. Strands of his hair flop into his eyes and flutter as he lets out a puff of breath - the first finger. Dean swallows and _wants, wants, wants._ “We could’ve skipped straight to this part.”

“More fun this way.”

Sam hums and smiles and rocks himself back and forth, abs tightening and relaxing to the rhythm of his strokes. He has a scar in the groove of his right hip - werewolf case gone wrong a while back - and another under his anti-possession tattoo - from the stupidest ghoul-hunting accident ever - and Dean can’t help himself, he caresses them and just stares and admires, eyes hungry-wide. The room’s too warm (AC’s busted of course). There are sweatdrops running down Sam’s chest, neatly trickling into the lines of his six pack, and Dean feels like he has a second skin made of scratchy sheet stuck to his back. Sam’s up to two fingers now (it shows on his face, in the way he’s licking his lips), and he mumbles something senseless that dissipates in the humid air around them like a prayer.

“Ready?” Dean asks, because that’s the only fucking thing he can think about, being _inside_ and thrusting up. His mind short-circuits and about dies when Sam nods, removes his hand and rests it on Dean’s stomach for a second (it’s wet, so wet, gonna be so good to feel that for himself). Then everything comes into sharp focus again as Sam lowers himself and they finally, _finally_ join and settle.

“You gonna do any of the work?” Sam raises his eyebrows, expression smooth and content. There’s a healthy flush on his cheeks that belies the faux-innocence he still manages to pull off if he wants. He’s already rolling his hips in minute motions, perfected during long winter nights on the Impala’s backseat, and he’s opening up for Dean so nicely that it feels like the most natural thing in the world. (But it’s not, it’s not, would never forget that.)

“Naw.” Dean gives him a lazy smile and makes a show of crossing his arms under his head. “Gonna let you do your thing. And just enjoy the ride.”

“Asshole.” Sam bends down and then they’re kissing and fucking the way Dean wanted, as if his left knee had never been dislocated before, as if Sam didn’t have those war badges (the scars) all over his body. No condom this time - it’s infinitely better when Sam lets them have it like that, without barriers. Their mouths play a match of tug-of-war (Dean’s winning, he has nipped Sam’s tongue) and leisurely slip-slide against each other while Sam grinds and bucks and moves up and down, up and down. It’s really fucking awesome as far as post-hunting sex goes.

Sam tugs Dean’s hands out from under his head and to the edge of the bed, laces their fingers together. “Gimme.” He rasps and when Dean does (braces his feet on the floor and starts thrusting), he breaks away and gasps, eyes squeezing shut.

He seems blissed out (must have found the angle, hit the right spot) and his cock coats Dean’s belly with precome where their fronts rub together. He arches his back, tense and trembling (waiting for the next one, God, so beautiful), and when Dean moves again, his whole body shudders and clenches around Dean’s cock. Dean untangles their fingers and smoothes his palms up along his arms, then down his sides to a comfortable hold on his hips. He waits until Sam relaxes and steadies himself on his chest, then fucks him like that, deep and hard and without restraint. Sam opens his eyes, pupils blown so wide his gaze is almost demon-black, and his expression crumples in a familiar way _(me too, Sammy, me too)._

“Dean, I lo-” He starts, but Dean’s hand darts out and stops that sentence before it can be fully formed.

“Hey. None of that.” (It’s too much, too basic of a truth to be said out loud, a sucker-punch.) Sam looks resigned, but he doesn’t put up a fight. He’s used to this. His lips pucker and press a small kiss to Dean’s calloused fingertips (just to make Dean sigh and ache inside).

“I know. I know.” Dean mumbles, grip on Sam’s hip tightening, and groans as the unstoppable flow of desire running through his body starts to tip over the edge. “Gotta shoot now.”

“Oh yeah.” Sam straightens, throws his head back and picks up the pace, so freakin’ wanton that it takes Dean’s breath away. It’s ten seconds, twenty, and they tumble into the abyss almost in synchrone, the bed shaking like the goddamn Magic Fingers. A few minutes go by unnoticed, unmissed, and when he gets back to the present at last, Sam is passed out next to him in a (sweaty-sticky-fucked-out) ball of limbs, contorted into the smallest shape he can manage and still halfway dangling off the bed. The sight prompts a snicker out of Dean and earns him a poke between the ribs.

“Turn around.” He nudges his brother until they are finally perpendicular to the headboard and lying like a mostly normal couple (well, they are upside-down, but who the fuck cares). He uses Sam’s discarded shirt as a substitute for a towel (gonna have a good laugh seeing the little bitch’s face in the morning), then performs an embarrassing wrestling routine with the apparently adhesive cards that are all over the sheets by now.

“Fucking… cards… son of a…” He huffs and hisses and growls until one of Sam’s arms wraps around his waist and pulls him flush against Sam’s chest. (It weighs, like, a ton. That’s the only reason why Dean stops moving after that.)

“Can I say it now?” Sam murmurs into the back of his neck.

“No.” Dean grumbles, but Sam just chuckles and says it anyway. They are more or less (totally) spooning in a rundown motel’s rickety bed in Bumfuck, Iowa, decades of an endless war behind them and another apocalypse on the horizon, tacky sex game cards trapped in their embrace, and Dean falls asleep as the happiest man on Earth (he is home).

 

 


End file.
